


Borrowed

by hollybennett123



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2012, Fallen!Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-06
Updated: 2012-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-15 18:16:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/530237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollybennett123/pseuds/hollybennett123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first thing Castiel will come to learn is this: there is an abundance of loneliness in glory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Borrowed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Dean/Cas Big Bang 2012.
> 
> Set approximately three years after Season 7, the story is deliberately vague with regards to what happened in the in-between. Takes canon events into account up to the end of 7x1, and is vague enough to fit to canon or your own ideas regarding what happens after.  
> My love and eternal gratitude go to lizfu for the stunning art, pickedoffthird for her wonderful beta skills and strangefancy for being a cheerleader, confidence-giver and friend. See acknowledgements after the epilogue for more of my gushing words of praise for these fine people.

_Note that lizfu's beautiful art can be found[here](http://lizfu.livejournal.com/122929.html) (please go leave her a comment about how wonderful she is!), and is also embedded into the fic below :)_ **_  
_**

****

**_Prologue_ **

 

Steadfast within the core of an angel’s being, all swathed in light and power and splendor, beats their Grace; it has not one color but all colors, infinite in their number, shifting from pastel blues to shocking cerise, burnished golds and silvers to rich, glossy emerald shades that shine like jewels. To the human eye it manifests itself as light, and yet it is not. There are no other words to describe its substance for no matter exists in this world or another that can be compared to it.

 

The human soul is both similar and entirely different to the swirling magnificence of an angel’s Grace. A more tangible, malleable form of energy, it can be cradled in the hollow of a palm or collected and bartered. Tormented. It cannot be seen, this warm, moving mass of vivacity, but can be moved from one place to another by those who know how.

 

Though different in form, both an angel’s Grace and a human’s soul are crafted by the same being; as the goddess of this nature of creation, she could raze cities with her voice and form armies with the spoken word, for she exists only as sound. Her voice is her tool with which she breathes Grace and souls into creation, spinning them like silken thread as her words shape and define them into something eternal and pure.

 

Every being must contain either a soul or their Grace, for this is what shall carry them forward into eternity when their mortal body or celestial form has succumbed to death’s inevitability. No individual could exist without one or the other, and none have ever tried; that is, until the divides between Heaven, Earth, Purgatory and Hell become blurred and the existence of all is shaken by the tremulous footsteps of the apocalypse that never was and its bloody, anguished aftermath.

 

There is someone, the goddess has heard, who contains neither Grace nor soul, his angelic spirit long since obliterated in a way unlike any she has seen, and a new human body crafted for him seemingly from nothing; his recreation bypassed her entirely, no soul spun or new Grace crafted for him. It was a first, and she would know for she has existed since the dawn of time, as old as God, ancient and everlasting.

 

This extraordinary soulless, Graceless individual should be nothing and nowhere, and yet his actions and emotions set him apart from others who have temporarily become detached from their inner spirit. She cannot fathom his existence, and nor does she know what will become of him when his newly mortal body can no longer subsist on this plane.

 

She murmurs his name with her devastating voice, rolling the syllables across her allegorical tongue with curiosity and testing the weight of them. She wishes she knew what to make of this former angel, this unique being.

 

_Cas-ti-el._

 

\---

**_Chapter 1_ **

 

In a motel room in northern Colorado, the former angel Castiel drifts steadily from slumber and awakens warm and rested in his bed. Sleep was something he had little experience of before he Fell for this final time, but it is something he has come to enjoy. It is early May and the morning is warm and bright; after months of winter and waking to a dark, unhappy chill, he has enjoyed these past weeks of spring light and sunshine, the room temperate and comfortable even when nude.

 

He stretches languorously, his leg brushing against Dean’s where he sleeps beside him; the other man stirs but does not wake. Castiel looks at him, fond, and carefully extracts himself from the bedcovers so as not to disturb the relaxed sprawl of Dean’s body and his deep, even breaths.

 

As Castiel heads towards the bathroom to relieve himself and wash he can hear faint footsteps across the bare wooden floor beyond the wall that separates this room and the next, soft thumps as drawers are closed and belongings rummaged through. Sam is awake, then, and Castiel realizes with some disappointment that he will have to wake Dean soon if they are to make an early start. Dean wanted them to be on the road by eight a.m. at the latest, and it is already after seven.

 

Leaning into the shower cubicle, he turns the cold metal handle to start up the water, testing the feel of it with his fingers for a minute before it warms to an agreeable temperature. He steps beneath the spray, sighing quietly under the pleasant beat of the water against his shoulders; this is one of the better motels they have stayed in, and he is grateful. He squirts some of the cheap apple-scented motel shampoo into his palm and uses it to lather his hair and body, closing his eyes and letting the water sluice refreshingly over his upturned face.

 

Three years, now, he has been human, and he still cannot comprehend how much this body can _feel_. The pleasant curl of arousal he feels is welcome and not unexpected; already half hard from when he first awoke, his cock swells further as he soaps himself, fingers lingering over the groove where thigh meets body. Wrapping a wet palm around himself, he gives several slow, languid strokes from base to tip, breath hitching slightly as he thumbs over the sensitive head. He should hurry up, he knows this, but the blissful slow burn of pleasure is too much of a temptation.

 

Castiel is so lost in it that he doesn’t hear Dean enter the bathroom until he speaks, rubbing the heel of one hand against drowsy eyes and with his hair mussed from the heap of pillows.

 

“Starting without me? Not fair, man,” Dean jokes, voice even coarser than usual with sleep. Castiel stops stroking himself, hands instead smoothing the water’s spray from his body.

 

“You were asleep,” he responds with a placid smile, stepping back to allow room for Dean to climb into the stall with him. Castiel’s heart pounds faster, every time.

 

“Not an excuse, Cas,” Dean breathes into his skin, fingers stroking over Castiel’s ribs with intent. Castiel inhales steam and _Dean_ , heady and dizzying, and slowly and quietly they bring each other to completion with hands and mouths. This is the best way to start a new day, and to Castiel it means the world.

 

“Good morning, Dean,” Castiel greets him belatedly, sated and content as the water swirls white around their feet; he always says _good morning_ , no matter what. Angels have no need to greet each other in such a way, but humans do and he is one of them now. He takes comfort in ritual and routine.

 

“Pretty good, yeah,” Dean laughs as he starts to quickly wash himself clean.

 

Once showered, they finish getting ready in comfortable silence. Castiel is almost certain that the t-shirt he pulls on actually belongs to Dean, but he makes no comment as he passes by and he decides that this one will be his from now on; the dark cotton is soft, well-worn, and it is oddly reassuring to dress in something that Dean has worn countless times before.

 

“Hey _Sam_ ,” Dean yells through the closed door that leads to Sam’s room, hammering a fist against it three times in succession. “You ready?”

 

The door creaks open and Sam appears, hoisting his duffel bag over one shoulder and brushing unruly hair from his eyes with his other hand.

 

“Good morning, Sam,” Castiel says, and Sam responds in kind before turning to his brother.

 

“You don’t need to shout so freaking loud, Dean. I’ve been ready ages,” Sam says with a grin and a raised eyebrow, stepping into the room to join them. “Not all as slow as you, Mr. Hasn’t-had-time-to-dry-his-hair-yet.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, quit your whining,” Dean replies, not-so-accidentally elbowing him in the ribs as they leave to walk to the car. “You’re in a good mood; you finally learn how to download free porn onto your laptop or something Sammy? Attaboy.”

 

Castiel watches their back and forth banter with affection. The truth is that they are all in a good mood, and have been for a while now. Past losses will always ache deep down, and there are memories that will never cease to be painful, but the present is hopeful and they are all of them grateful for the simplicity of life at the moment. They hunt, and sometimes they are tired, or injured, but mostly they move from town to town at a steady pace, taking care of straightforward hauntings and creatures the Winchesters have dealt with a hundred times before. The worst is over for the foreseeable future and their relief cannot be measured.

 

The walk is only a short one and as they round a corner the Impala comes into view, the sunlight glinting off her polished frame.

 

“Cas calls shotgun,” Dean smirks as he unlocks the doors.

 

“Dean, you can’t call shotgun for someone else,” Sam complains with exaggerated annoyance.  “I’m pretty sure that’s against the rules.”

 

Castiel waits while they finish arguing back and forth. He always finds them amusing to watch; humans have such fascinating relationships, he thinks, interacting in so many different ways.

 

“Oh, you wanna get your rule book, Sammy? My car, my choice,” Dean grins as he climbs into the driver’s seat. Sam just shakes his head and rolls his eyes with a smile before gesturing for Castiel to sit beside Dean.

 

“No, Sam, that seat is yours,” Castiel tells him, climbing into the rear of the car. “I would prefer the backseat anyway.”

 

“ _Yeah_ you prefer the backseat,” Dean mutters under his breath with a lewd smile, and Sam smacks him upside the head. Castiel catches Dean’s eye in the rear-view mirror and Dean winks at him, to which Castiel gives him his best exasperated look and Dean laughs, infectious and bright.

 

As they pull away from the sidewalk, Castiel relaxes into the seat and watches the buildings pass them by in a blur, dusty grays and chalky whites. He really does prefer to travel in the back where it is more spacious, the enclosed cocoon of the car still somewhat claustrophobic to someone with memories of flying in open, cloudless blue skies. Back here he can stretch out and watch the landscape pass by with a good view out of any of the car’s windows; it is his own way of exploring the world, still so new through a human’s eyes.

 

Besides, it’s true that there are memories of the backseat and of Dean that make him smile, secret and hidden.

 

The bricks and concrete of the city soon give way to vibrant greens and yellows, fields flashing past in a continuous smudge of vivacious color. The trees are still blossoming following the onset of spring and the tiny petals are picked up by the breeze, swirling like snowflakes and dancing across the tarmac under their wheels.

 

After a few minutes have passed, Sam attempts to start a conversation about his research and the case they’re working on, but Dean stops him with a raised hand.

 

“Nuh-uh, no talking about hunting right now. We’ve got more important things to deal with first,” he says, suddenly serious.

 

“Like what?” Sam replies, frowning. Dean glances in the side mirror and turns smoothly into the car park of a roadside café.

 

“Dude,” Dean says, switching off the ignition and raising his eyebrows incredulously. “ _Breakfast?_ ”

 

~*~

 

“The _fuck,_ ” Dean says loudly around a mouthful of half-chewed pancake, fork flailing alarmingly close to Sam’s chin. A young woman attempting to spoon-feed a small child nearby shoots him an angry glare, but he smiles apologetically and she blushes and ducks her head under the force of his easy charm. “But seriously,” Dean continues, quieter this time. “Who the hell even has the mojo to rip someone’s soul right out of them?”

 

“That’s the thing,” Sam says thoughtfully. “Not a lot, from what I’ve found. Other than angels, I’ve not really got much.”

 

“And you’re certain it was their souls that were taken? In all seven cases?” Castiel asks him.

 

Sam confirms and explains further, and it all seems to lead to the same conclusion: someone, or something, is attacking human adults and extracting their souls from their bodies. All seven victims underwent a dramatic change in personality overnight, and where they’d been warm and friendly beforehand, they inexplicably became cold-hearted and apathetic.

 

Lacking the capacity for embarrassment or fear of repercussion did at least have one benefit: all seven victims were willing to talk quite candidly about their experiences to the local newspapers. Each and every one of them claimed to have been approached by a tall, slender man, who reached into their stomach and stole a part of them.

 

Members of the local medical community were of course quite perplexed.

 

“You think we’ve got a rogue angel on our hands?” Dean asks, aiming the question at Castiel.

                                                                                                                                                                       

Castiel pushes little heaps of scrambled egg around his plate with his fork, silent as he considers it. They have heard very little concerning any angel activity at all for over two years now; as far as he can tell, those who weren’t killed during the war either chose free will and walk among humans now, or obstinately carry out the same duties they always have done in Heaven on an endless loop while awaiting further orders from their long-absent Father. The affairs of Heaven and Earth rarely collide these days.

 

“I think it’s possible,” he eventually answers. “I doubt it’s anyone from my garrison, though.” _His_ garrison; old habits, they say, die hard. “What I mean is that I doubt it’ll be an angel of the order I once was. They wouldn’t be able to escape Heaven’s watch for long and yet whoever has been taking these souls seems to have been doing so for several weeks now if the reports are correct.”

 

“So… a different kind of angel?” Sam asks him. “Like a lower ranking or something?”

 

“Yes, I believe so.”

 

“Great,” Dean mutters, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Angels and souls; had kinda hoped we were done with all that shit.”

 

It’s a throwaway comment, not meant to offend, but it stirs an old ache pushed deep. “So were we all, Dean,” Castiel enunciates, firm. Now is not the time to dwell in the past.

 

“So, angel blade?” Sam cuts in.

 

Castiel nods. “But with only one between three of us, we’ll have to be cautious.” As hunts go, this will be by far the most challenging they’ve had in a long while, even if it does pale in comparison to some of those faced in the past.

 

The conversation drifts elsewhere as they finish eating, and if Dean notices when Castiel sneaks a forkful of syrup-drenched pancake from his plate he certainly doesn’t mention it.

 

~*~

 

They arrive in the aptly-named Greenside shortly after two in the afternoon, the journey uneventful. Despite the welcome sign proudly proclaiming a population of over five thousand residents, it is eerily quiet with very little sign of life as they pass through.

 

They follow the main road through the centre to stop at a tiny six-room guesthouse on the other side of town, and the gray-haired woman at reception looks positively overjoyed when they enter.

 

“Not too many folks staying round these parts these days,” she says with a weary smile. “Sure you’ve read all about it. These rooms are safe as houses, though, so don’t you boys worry about a thing.”

 

Sam thanks her warmly and takes their key, and they follow a winding staircase up to their shared room; it is old fashioned and threadbare with probably excessive amounts of pink floral patterns, but surprisingly inviting. Castiel has come to learn that as long as a room is warm and mostly clean, anything else is a bonus.

 

Dean eyes the rose-patterned wallpaper dubiously before disappearing for ten minutes, returning with sandwiches in white paper bags which they tuck into as they congregate around the room’s wobbling wooden table to come up with a plan of action. Sam spreads a map out before them and points out Greenside somewhere near the centre.

 

“So, like I said last week, five of the cases happened here,” he explains. “First three back to back, then a couple in nearby towns a few miles away.” He traces an imaginary line across the paper to illustrate. “Couple more happened here in Greenside in the last two weeks, so I’m guessing whoever’s doing this has got to be nearby. They don’t seem to want to move on for whatever reason.”

 

Castiel frowns, thinking. “I believe it’s likely that they _can’t_ move on. An angel, especially if it’s one of a low ranking, would find it a great effort to transport so many souls from place to place without drawing unwanted attention from other angels or demons.”

 

“I probably don’t want to know the answer to this,” Dean says, rocking back on the legs of his chair. “But… who in the hell do we think they’re selling the souls to?”

 

“I don’t think they’re using them to barter for anything; it’d be too much of a risk,” Castiel replies. “I can’t say for sure but I imagine that they’ll simply accumulate them, drain them of energy then toss them aside. Unfortunately we won’t be able to return them to the bodies of the victims, but once freed they’ll be collected by a reaper and hopefully their suffering will be over.”

 

Dean curses under his breath, shaking his head. “Then we’d better hurry up and gank the sick son of a bitch before anyone else gets soul-slammed.”

 

“Except,” Sam points out, “we can’t summon an angel if we don’t know their name. We’re gonna have to scope out the town tonight and Cas can tell us where they are. Not ideal, but I think we’re fresh out of other options.”

 

As much as Castiel is dreading potentially having to kill one of his brothers or sisters, a small part of him is quietly pleased that he will be a useful addition to this particular hunt; although he’s quick with a shotgun now, fitter and stronger and an all-round good fighter, he knows deep down that on the majority of hunts Sam and Dean could cope perfectly well by themselves. It isn’t that he feels like he is a burden, and he is well aware that his knowledge and memory are unequalled by any other and he is therefore invaluable to them during their research, but in the heat of combat he often feels like an unnecessary addition to what was already a perfect partnership.

 

Here, at least, he has a skill that they do not. He might no longer be an angel, but he has at least retained the capability to sense when they are nearby; his abilities are probably less celestial and more akin to that of a human psychic nowadays, but it is better than nothing and he is glad.

 

“ _Angels_ , man,” Dean grumbles.

 

Castiel, somewhat an expert on the subject, is inclined to agree with him.

 

~*~

 

The first night proves unproductive. They spend over six hours from late evening to the early morning investigating the surrounding area both by car and on foot, but Castiel senses no angelic presence and they do not encounter any disturbances or unusual activity. Eventually, weary and frustrated, they decide to give up and return to the guesthouse to get a few hours of sleep.

 

The next day is mostly spent in the area around Greenside, discussing the recent happenings with local citizens and trying to coax any further information out of them. The three of them trail from library to café to grocery store, but most people they converse with either seem to either know very little or are unwilling to talk, nervous at the prospect of strangers due to the town’s current tense state.

 

It isn’t until almost midnight, covertly surveying the town once again, that Castiel feels something. The thrum of energy is familiar in its nature but not in its design; an angel, unquestionably, but not one he has ever met. It is something of a relief, if he is honest with himself, as he has no desire to see someone he once considered a faithful brother now turned callous and malevolent. A stranger, he hopes, will be less painful to face.

 

To slay.

 

He is armed but alone, the Winchesters having left him to search this part of town while they each took to another location in order to cover as much ground as possible. He cannot work out exactly where the angel is, but he can tell from the strength of the feeling that they are very close. He is suddenly immensely glad that his ribs are now branded to hide him from Heaven; it is only a matter of time, though, before they see him.

 

Castiel hides in the shadows, back against cold brick, and quickly dials Dean’s number. Dean picks up after only one ring and Castiel tells him his location in hushed tones, adding that he should call Sam on the way over. Dean tells him decisively to wait where he is before ending the call, but Castiel isn’t sure how long he can linger here before his presence becomes known.

 

He only has to wait alone for around a minute before help arrives; it’s actually Sam who gets there first, making him jump when he suddenly appears.

 

“Cas, you okay?” Sam breathes, joining him where he’s hidden by darkness. “What’s going on?”

 

“He’s nearby,” Castiel murmurs. “I can sense him; I’m not sure where, maybe in the building behind us.”

 

“We’ll wait for Dean,” Sam whispers, looking back and forth around them for signs of movement. Unfortunately at that moment they hear a spine-chilling scream from inside the building and they freeze in unison, eyes wide.

 

“ _Crap_ ,” Sam mutters. “Change of plan, come on.”

 

They run to a narrow side door further down the alleyway and Sam uses the handle of his knife to smash the padlock open with practiced ease. Castiel is glad to be carrying both a gun and the angel blade, both a reassuring weight where they are tucked close to his body.

 

Shouldering the door open, they enter the gloomy building and find themselves in a large, empty hall. There are white lines painted on the smooth floor and Castiel realizes that this is some sort of gymnasium or sports center where people come to exercise. At the far end of the room he can distinguish three figures, and at Castiel and Sam’s entrance the tallest of them turns, distracted. The cornered teenagers probably work here, Castiel would guess from their matching uniforms; they had most likely thought themselves safer after closing hours by working as a partnership, but instead only made themselves a more tempting target.

 

“Really?” the angel laughs, and his voice sounds too big for his slim frame. The pale man he is wearing must be in his seventies or older, with a kind, gentle face and soft hands, but his form is twisted and made ugly by the being inside of him that brims over the edges. “A Winchester and Heaven’s least favorite rebel; you honestly think you’re any match for me?”

 

There was a time when Castiel would have known his brother’s name simply by looking at him, regardless of whether or not they were previously acquainted. Now he senses an angel and sees a man, and yet knows nothing of either.

 

“It’s Janiel,” the angel sneers, looking amusedly at Castiel. “Powers not what they used to be, brother?” He shakes his head and turns back to the terrified teenagers who are cowering against the wall, placing fingers against their foreheads and forcing them to drop to the ground in a dead faint. “That’s better,” he grins crookedly, wiping his hands on his shirt and striding towards the centre of the room before coming to a halt and waiting for Castiel’s next move.

 

Sam and Castiel approach Janiel slowly, Sam’s path arcing away from Castiel’s; with one of them at either side, he is less likely to be able to take them both out at once.

 

“Why are you doing this, brother?” Castiel says softly. “These souls aren’t yours to take.”

 

“So a handful of humans get their souls reaped a few years early- is it really of great importance?” Janiel scoffs.

 

“You must know that this is wrong,” Castiel implores him. “They have as much right to a full life as you do.”

 

“They are insignificant filth-dwellers, Castiel, and you are blinded to it,” he says, shaking his head. “The more power I can gather, the better I will be able to serve our Father when He returns.”

 

At that moment, Castiel feels a droplet of wetness on the back of his neck, almost as if the roof is leaking. It hasn’t rained in days. He rubs at it surreptitiously, slick against his fingertips and realization dawns; thankfully Janiel appears not to have noticed, their conversation and his own arrogance preventing him from paying attention. Castiel must keep him stalled.

 

“You cannot believe that that is what He would want from you, Janiel.”

 

“Such _hypocrisy_ , Castiel,” Janiel laughs, throwing his head back. “Do you really wish to discuss what our Father would want when you yourself are a blasphemous abomination who chose his own will over Heaven’s?”

 

“I never intended to hurt anyone,” Castiel replies. “That is the difference between us, brother.”

 

Castiel catches Sam’s eye for a brief moment and the other man nods almost imperceptibly; he knows, then, what is about to happen. Sam’s eyes flick upwards to the ceiling and then back to the angel in front of them, and both he and Castiel step closer, ensuring that Janiel remains stationary and doesn’t attempt to advance upon them.

 

“As interesting as this is, Castiel, can we get to the part where you endeavor to attack me and I break every bone in your pathetic bodies?” he sneers.

 

“I’m afraid we have no choice but to kill you,” Castiel tells him, and Janiel barks out a laugh.

 

“Were you always this stupid, Castiel, or is it a new human thing you’re trying out? I can fly away at any time, you ignorant fool.”

 

“ _Hey douchebag_ ,” Dean yells suddenly, voice echoing around the hall. “Don’t count on it.”

 

Janiel’s face transforms in an instant from humor to fury, turning to look upwards to where Dean is laid across the exposed metal roof joists. Dean hurls his lighter down and he space around them erupts into flame, not quite the usual circle but a waving squiggle that contains the angel nevertheless.

 

With Janiel finally trapped with them, they can at last go in for the kill; unfortunately, of course, it does nothing to help the fact that his power easily outstrips the three of them combined. Sam is defenseless without any weapon that will kill an angel, and Dean has vanished from above them.

 

With no time left to consider their next move Castiel draws out the blade and throws himself forward with every bit of his weight behind it, crying out as Janiel reacts faster than expected, seizing his wrist and forcing him to his knees. The blade clatters away across the floor through the licking flames and comes to rest several feet away, useless. With a flick of his other hand, the angel sends Sam sprawling across the floor, conscious but very much warned against even trying to get to the knife himself.

 

“Such a pretty vessel,” Janiel smirks. “There’s not a speck of Grace left in you, is there Castiel? I can only imagine how lovely your soul will feel, all newly made.”

 

Castiel attempts to draw back, feeling the narrow bones in his wrist shift under the angel’s tight grip. He is utterly trapped, pain sharp through his arm and blurring his thoughts. He hears Sam shout his name, but Janiel ignores him and Castiel hasn’t the wherewithal to respond.

 

“You’re mine, Castiel,” Janiel whispers, smug. He crouches down before Castiel and plunges his bony hand beneath his ribcage, curling his fingers and grasping at his insides. It is unbearable _agony_ , like fire and devastation ripping him apart from within as he shouts and writhes, hands grasping Janiel’s forearm as though he could pry him away.

 

“What the-” Janiel sputters, ripping his hand back abruptly in horror and leaving Castiel swaying on his knees, panting and half delirious from the pain. “How can this be? Graceless and soulless both – what _are_ you?”

 

Castiel hears an intake of breath from Sam, and Dean too, he thinks; and then he sees movement, Dean beyond the flames, and Sam moving to catch something and suddenly Janiel erupts in a flare of light, the angel blade embedded in his back. Castiel slumps back, clutching at his chest and taking deep, gulping breaths. Stepping across the holy fire, Dean looks down at him, shock written across his face.

 

“ _Cas_ ,” he says shakily, and Castiel doesn’t want to look at him. He closes his eyes and inhales.

 

Over the staccato pounding of his heartbeat, all he can think is, _I knew, I knew, I knew_.

 

\---

**_Chapter 2_ **

 

The problem with hunting – aside from the obvious – is that there’s no time for reflection following a major incident; they have unconscious victims to attend to and belongings to gather before they can make a swift departure, heading west on an unlit, uneven road with no destination in mind beyond escapism. There is a tension stretched taut between them and Castiel’s mouth tastes like blood, and all the while Dean is silent and Sam careful.

 

They’re a good half hour away from Greenside when Dean eventually pulls over in the dark, tires crunching wet undergrowth and leaving tracks in the mud as they swerve from the road and roll to a stop beneath the conifers. He hauls the handbrake up with an angry jolt and a low-muttered _screw this_ before climbing out of the car and slamming the door behind him. Castiel flings open his own door in pursuit as Sam rubs a weary hand over his face and follows closely behind.

 

Dean whirls around, half-lit in the illumination of the Impala’s headlights, and curls his fingers into fists; Castiel can’t remember the last time he saw Dean so shaken and for all he knew this was coming, it does nothing to quell the sinking feeling that rolls through his stomach like blood-hot stone.

 

“I don’t even know what the fuck to say right now, Cas,” Dean says quietly, jaw a hard line of furious apprehension. “All this time, the last – what? _Three years_ you’ve spent with us? All that time you were freaking _soulless_ and you didn’t think to mention it?”

 

“Dean –” Castiel begins, but Dean cuts him off.

 

“You knew it, right? Because you might’ve looked like you were on one hell of a downer when that angel-asshole mentioned it, but you sure as fuck didn’t look surprised.”

 

Castiel is aching and exhausted and it is cold outside the warmth of the car, rain falling relentlessly and making his t-shirt stick to him uncomfortably. This is not a conversation he wants to have right now, but he has avoided this painful truth for far longer than he ever should have.

 

“I didn’t know, Dean,” Castiel says resolutely, but he is nothing if not honest and he lowers his voice to admit to the rest. “I had guessed as much, though.”

 

“Oh that’s just fucking fantastic, then, huh?” Dean says. “So, what, all those times you’ve acted like you give a shit about me and Sam you were faking it and hoping we wouldn’t find out? Do you even feel anything, or are we just a convenience for you to tag along with?”

 

His words hit Castiel like a punch to the stomach and he takes an incensed stride towards him. “How could you even _think_ that, Dean?” he asks him incredulously. “I feel _everything_!”

 

Sam steps between them, cutting them off and holding his hands up. “Guys, can we not do this here, at two a.m. in a fucking _downpour_? Maybe find somewhere to crash for tonight, talk it out later?”

 

Dean holds Castiel’s gaze for a couple of seconds then turns and walks away, ignoring Sam.

 

“Fine,” Sam says, heading back to the Impala and wrenching the driver’s door open. “Go fight it out. If you’re not back here in ten minutes, I’m taking the damn car and driving off without you both because _seriously_.”

 

Castiel follows Dean’s path into the trees, walking quickly until he can grab the sleeve of his jacket and Dean is forced to stop and face him. Dean shrugs out of his grip but doesn’t try to walk away again, instead simply standing there, eyes narrowed and flecks of rainwater in his lashes reflecting the moon’s diluted glow. He looks devastatingly beautiful, and Castiel knows he shouldn’t be thinking such things right now, but he cannot stop himself; inexplicably they always seem to be pulled together even more when they’re fighting, emotions running close to the surface and blurring the line between violence and want. That Dean should think that any of his actions since he Fell were a product of dishonesty shakes him to the very core.

 

“I’m not lying, Dean,” Castiel says earnestly, crowding into Dean’s space and forcing him to meet his eyes. “None of this was ever a lie.”

 

Dean shakes his head, faltering, and tries to shoulder past him, but Castiel grabs at his wrist and they stagger back, slamming bodily against weather-beaten bark. For a couple of seconds Dean’s mouth is slack and unmoving beneath Castiel’s own, but then Dean grasps at Castiel’s jaw and kisses back fiercely and with brutal intensity, wet and wanting. Castiel presses their bodies together, hips fitting against Dean’s on instinct and gripping at his jacket as though it can anchor them in place.

 

Dean’s breath hitches in response, but a moment later he roughly shoves Castiel away, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “No, Cas, that doesn’t make it okay. Fine, I get it, I shouldn’ta said what I said and I was a dumbass for even thinking it; you still should have _told_ us. Something isn’t right here and we need to get it fixed.”

 

For several moments it is quiet beyond the soft rustle of damp foliage, the leaves and needles surrounding them weighing heavy with precipitation. His frustration dissipating slowly, Castiel suddenly feels oddly small, standing rain-wet and breathless before Dean under the canopy of vast trees that appear to stretch endlessly towards the sky. The aching tiredness in him wars with the adrenaline and it takes him a few moments to focus his thoughts.

 

“I know,” he says at length. “I should have said something.” He takes a slow breath before continuing, Dean watching him carefully as he does so. “I had no way of knowing for certain and no idea how to fix this. I didn’t want you to carry this burden also.”

 

“Fuck, Cas, you can’t ignore crap like this and hope it goes away; you must have realized it was gonna come back and bite you on the ass eventually. We have no clue what having no soul or Grace or whatever could actually do to you, and what the hell happens when…”

 

“When I die?”

 

“Yeah, man, when you fucking kick it, alright? Doing what we do, we dunno when time’s up for any one of us and frankly I think we used up all our chances. And as for Heaven? Been there, not that impressed with the whole set-up, but I was assuming you were gonna be there in one way or another, human or angel or whatever way I could have you.”

 

Dean is right and Castiel has no further retort; he _knows_ he can’t hide from this forever. To ignore the feeling that something was off for so long was nothing more than cowardice and foolishness.

 

There’s a stretch of silence again before Dean sighs, expression softer than before, and sets off back towards the car with a soft-uttered, “Gotta catch our ride.”

 

It’s a relief to arrive back at the Impala and Sam winds the window down as they approach, starting the engine and fixing them both with a pointed look. “I’m driving. Next motel we reach, we’re stopping.”

 

 No one has the energy to argue.

 

~*~

 

Sleep doesn’t come easily and Castiel spends much of the night thinking. Dean tosses and turns beside him in the darkness, apparently just as restless, but eventually places a tentative hand on Castiel’s waist and murmurs a tired, “We’re gonna deal with this, yeah?” so quietly that Castiel almost doesn’t hear him.

 

It is surprisingly cathartic and at some point soon after Castiel drifts off. He dreams that he is flying. It doesn’t provide any answers, but remembering the feeling of flight serves to ease the quiet sadness of its absence in his life, now nothing more than a memory.

 

~*~

 

He wakes up alone some hours later, the sheets on Dean’s side of the bed cold under Castiel’s outstretched palm. He can’t see a clock nearby, but instinct tells him it is already late morning and he has slept for some time.

 

After showering and dressing quickly, he makes his way to Sam’s room where he knocks and waits for a moment, opening the door when he hears Sam shout that it’s open. The Winchesters are sat at either side of a round table, surrounded by the remnants of breakfast and with Sam’s laptop open in front of them.

 

“Good morning,” Castiel says, closing the door behind him and heading to the faucet to fill a glass with water. Sam gives him a tired smile and offers him coffee, which he declines; he’s not much in the mood for food or anything else.

 

“We were gonna start some research,” Dean says with a shrug, “but honestly, no idea where to start. You got any ideas?”

 

“I believe I know someone who may be able to help us,” Castiel replies. His many sleepless hours last night weren’t wasted, and while he has no clear-cut answers, he is at least hopeful that they can move towards gaining some useful information. “She was one of my closest allies during the civil war in Heaven, though I was of course sworn to secrecy in order to protect her. Anyone found to be siding with me was… dealt with unpleasantly by Raphael’s forces.”

 

“An angel, then? Super,” Dean says, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

 

“ _Dean_. She was, and still is, considered a friend,” Castiel tells him, clearing plates and mugs from the table and placing them in the sink. “In fact, she lives as a human now,” he continues. “Last I heard she was working as a successful lawyer in New York.”

 

“Seriously? An angel turned lawyer? You’ve got to be kidding me,” Dean snorts.

 

“It’s unsurprising to me that she now lives among humans. As the angel of freedom and unconditional love, she was always the closest to humankind in her duties, and as she adapted to free will she decided she would be happier here on Earth.”

 

“So how come you think she’ll be able to help us out?” Sam asks him.

 

“The last time we spoke, probably a year ago now, she was not in her usual vessel. Apparently she had a new body created for herself, though we didn’t talk for long and she didn’t go into details,” Castiel goes on. “At the time, it didn’t seem of great importance, but now I believe she may know something that could help us. She may know more about how angels and humans are created and therefore how I was resurrected.”

 

Sam nods in understanding. “Hey, didn’t you once mention something about Anna’s vessel? It was destroyed but she came back somehow, didn’t she?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel replies. “Anna was an unusual case, in that she Fell and was reborn as a human child; she technically never had a normal vessel in the first place. But after she was reformed into an angel, she told me she ‘called in some old favors’ to have her human body remade. The majority of angels unfortunately know little about the process of creation beyond the ability to heal an already formed body or in rare cases piece someone back together along with their soul – but it seems some know more than most.”

 

Dean takes a seat and flicks the cap off a condensation-dripping beer bottle with a sigh. “Okay, sounds good. So how do we get this buddy of yours to fly her lawyer ass over here then?”

 

“Fortunately that part is easy,” Castiel tells him. “If I pray to her, she should hear me.”

 

Sam drags his chair around the table to sit beside Dean as Castiel moves to stand in the centre of the room; clasping his palms loosely together, he begins to whisper in Enochian. The vocabulary feels so rich and beautiful in his mouth, and it always feels like coming home. These words are older than he is and the language of the angels will never leave him.

 

_Shekinah_ , he says quietly, closing his eyes and projecting his location so that she may find him. _My sister. I am in need of advice; please come to me if you are able._

 

He feels a small glimmer of energy that tells him she has heard him and, opening his eyes, he waits. The Winchesters are silent behind him.

 

Everything is hushed and tranquil for a few moments, and then the room begins to shudder; a table lamp switches itself on and the bulb explodes in a shower of white-hot sparks, just missing the flimsy curtains which whip around the closed window as though caught in an invisible windstorm. The shaking subsides, and with a rustle of feathers a smartly-dressed woman appears, sat on the pine dresser with her legs crossed demurely beneath her pencil skirt.

 

“I know I don’t _have_ to do the whole exploding light bulb thing,” she says, eyes shining with mischief and twirling a ringlet of black hair around one finger. “But it’s more badass that way, don’cha think?”

 

“Shekinah,” Castiel greets her with a gentle smile. “It is always good to see you, sister.” Her human form amuses him as it so utterly belies the incredible angelic power she holds within. She is so tiny like this, probably barely reaching five feet without her high heels. Even by human standards she appears harmless and fragile and he feels sorry for any person foolish enough to get on her bad side; then again, knowing Shekinah as he does, she probably chose this body on purpose, enjoying putting people in their place when they dare to underestimate her.

 

“Castiel,” she grins, kicking her legs back and forth. “You look well, honey. Sun, sleep and sodomy are a good look for you,” she adds, smirking, and somewhere behind him Dean chokes on a mouthful of beer. Castiel turns to see Sam stifling laughter into his fist and Dean attempting to wipe the alcohol off his hands where he’s spit it everywhere.

 

“Okay, I like her already,” Dean says, waving his beer bottle in her general direction.

 

“Of course you do, sweetie, everybody does,” she laughs, curls bouncing; she is always so effortlessly _human_. “So, what can I do for you, Cassie? I’m a busy woman nowadays,” she says, head tilted questioningly.

 

He anticipates the way her face falls when he describes his confusion at being resurrected and the fact that he now knows for certain that has neither soul nor Grace, but it doesn’t hurt any less to witness. She is usually so cheerful, and now he has upset her; guilt is an emotion he is becoming all too familiar with.

 

“Oh, Cas,” she says softly, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry, hon. What is it that you think I can help with? I’ll try to, I really will, but I’m not sure there’s much I can do.”

 

“We were wondering how you came to be in your human form. She isn’t a vessel, you have told me that before, but I don’t understand how you came to have your own body. Who can create something like that, with the exception of our Father?”

 

His voice is tight at the mention of their absent God, lingering bitterness he struggles to keep hidden.

 

“Ah,” Shekinah murmurs, quietly tapping her scarlet-painted fingernails against the wood on which she sits. “The commonly held belief, as you know, is that the Earth, the Heavens and everything they contain were created by God Himself. I’ve come to find that that isn’t true.”

 

“Really?” Sam says, taken aback. “Who, then?”

 

“Of course it’s true that God designed the world, and the ideas are His. He thought of humans, angels, everything you can possibly imagine… but the actual design and creation of each individual and their inner spirit is delegated elsewhere.”

 

“So God’s the douche in a suit getting all the credit while his flunkies do the actual work?” Dean snorts.

 

The corners of Shekinah’s mouth twitch up. “Something like that, yeah. They’re known as Creators; higher than angels, they’re sort of like lesser gods and goddesses that are each experts in a different aspect of creation. One will make humans and angels, another will create all species of animal, another Creator will form rivers and mountains… that sort of thing.”

 

She pauses, brow furrowed, and chews at her lip thoughtfully. “It’s difficult to give them a general name beyond the angel’s term ‘Creator’, or even individual names, as they simply don’t have them. They have no need for them. It’s kinda difficult to explain something so non-human using human words.”

 

Sam frowns. “So you’ve met one of these Creators then?” he asks. “And they created your human body?”

 

“That’s right. The bloodline from which I have to take a vessel had almost entirely died out, and I thought it was unfair to keep kicking around in one vessel for the rest of my days on Earth. It would be cruel to her and she was a total sweetheart; I didn’t want someone to be forced to stick with me for endless decades so I decided to see about having a new, empty vessel created that I could wear pretty much permanently.”

 

Castiel feels a swell of hopefulness at her words; perhaps they are getting nearer to finding out how he came to be in this body, alone and human and somehow capable of emotion despite having no Grace or soul to speak of.

 

Shekinah takes a breath and continues with her story.

 

“Basically, some angels owed me favors, I went through a long and boring process yadda yadda yadda, but in the end I was able to speak with the goddess who creates human bodies and she agreed to make this cute little thing for me. Course, she didn’t have to make a soul or anything as I still have my original Grace.”

 

“Is there anyone else who has the power to bring someone back to life and give them a vessel?” Castiel asks her.

 

“Not as far as I know,” Shekinah replies, shaking her head. “She claimed she was the only one, and I don’t see any reason for her to lie.”

 

Castiel closes his eyes for a moment, drained. If this Creator claims to be the only one with such a power, she _must_ have created this body for him. It also sounds as though she is the only one who could help him receive a soul; hopeful and anxious both, he asks her how they can speak with the goddess. This is their only option.

 

Shekinah heaves a sigh and purses her lips. “She refuses to speak to humans at all, and she won’t even allow angels to talk to her unless she thinks they have something important to say,” she tells him. “She may be willing to listen to me, though, and we can see where we get.”

 

“Thank you,” Castiel nods, grateful.

 

“Okay,” Shekinah says confidently, jumping down from her perch on the dresser. “I’ll summon her to talk to Castiel and I; she’ll most likely converse in Enochian, and she’ll be speaking inside our heads, but if you guys want to listen in,” she nods to Sam and Dean, “you can join in the ritual and I’ll channel her voice through me. You should be able to hear and understand what we’re saying as long as we all maintain a physical connection, though you won’t be able to interact with her. She’d be able to hear you, sure, but I doubt she’d react well to a couple of humans getting all up in her business – no offence or anything.”

 

“So we just hold hands and invite her down for a shindig?” Dean says with clearly misplaced optimism.

 

“Unfortunately, not quite that simple,” she laughs. Dean downs the last of his beer and scowls.

 

~*~

 

As it turns out, the ritual is slightly painful, though not overly complex. They sit gathered around the circular table and Shekinah carefully draws symbols onto their palms and fingertips with a small knife. The cuts are shallow but stinging, blood welling in crimson whorls, and Castiel is thankful when she is finally finished.

 

The four of them then link hands around the table, séance-like. Castiel has Shekinah to his left and Dean to his right, warm and familiar in a way that makes his fingers tingle. Shekinah’s other palm is of course taken by Sam, her delicate dark hand lost in the grasp of his much larger one; no one would guess from looking that she was easily the most powerful of their odd little group.

 

As she begins an Enochian chant in her head, Castiel holds her fingers tightly between his own and waits anxiously for a voice to answer them. There is a strange feeling of pressure all around them, and then he hears someone speak.

 

“Shekinah,” the voice says, large and tremulous and so brimming with power that Castiel can barely stand to listen to it. “I hope you have good reason for interrupting my work.”

 

“My apologies,” the angel replies, her hand squeezing Castiel’s in reassurance. “We need help and you are the only one we know of who may be able to do so.”

 

“ _We_? You dare bring someone else to me, requesting my assistance?” the voice bristles, incensed. “What makes you think I have any desire to spend my time dealing with the petty problems of angels?”

 

“Please, goddess,” Shekinah pleads within her thoughts, shifting apprehensively in her seat. “This is the Fallen angel Castiel, and-”

 

Her words are cut off before she can finish her sentence. The entire room seems to be vibrating with barely contained energy and Castiel feels nauseated and dizzy with it; it is too much.

 

“ _Castiel?_ ” the goddess says, shocked and snarling. “I have long desired to speak with him.”

 

“I am Castiel,” he thinks in Enochian, and Dean rubs the pad of his thumb in uneasy circles over Castiel’s knuckle.

 

There was once a time he would be unafraid of any being in Heaven, but that was before. Now, he feels fear rising in him like a wave, sickening and terrible. So much of his worry is for Dean and Sam, now; whoever wishes to harm him may try to harm them also and he is so defenseless without his Grace.

 

“I would like to know how it is, little angel,” the goddess asks with barely restrained anger, “that you came to have that body when I did not make it for you.”

                                                                         

“ _I don’t know_ ,” he thinks, channeling the thought to her. “I have been brought back to life as an angel and now as a human, and I don’t know who is responsible.”

 

She doesn’t voice her confusion, but he can feel it in the air, palpable.

 

“Alright, Castiel. And how is it that you are able to exist with neither soul nor Grace when there are no others who have ever achieved such a thing in all my millennia of existence?”

 

“I don’t know that either,” he replies. This isn’t how he expected this conversation to go at all; it was supposed to be an opportunity to question her, but it has reversed so that he is the focus. “The only thing I ask for is a soul so that I can ascend to Heaven as a human when I die,” he begs. “We hoped that you may be able to help; I will do anything you ask.”

 

He doesn’t know if she can sense emotion or simply the words he is saying, but he tries to project them anyway. He will do whatever she asks of him if he can keep the Winchesters safe and remain by their side.

 

“I don’t think you understand the magnitude of what your existence means,” her voice continues. “No one can construct bodies and no one can make an inner spirit _except for me_. And yet you not only have a vessel, you also have the ability to think and feel like someone with a soul despite your complete lack of one. How did you come to be, Castiel, _tell me_ ,” she implores of him.

 

“There must be someone else who has the same power you do,” Castiel responds boldly, his fear rapidly being overtaken with frustration. “As an angel, I was able to reconstruct human bodies when necessary.”

 

“There is no other, I am absolute,” she cries, her exasperation ringing in his ears. “You must understand, Castiel, that there is a difference between construction and reconstruction. You placed a readymade-soul back into a damaged human body that you could heal piece by piece. When both your vessel and your Grace were annihilated simultaneously, you should have been wiped out of existence with no base from which to rebuild.”

 

Castiel’s head is pounding and his palms are sweating; he takes slow, even breaths and forces himself to focus. He almost doesn’t hear when Sam whispers something to him, apprehensive.

 

“Cas, if she creates Grace, who created hers?”

 

It occurs to him that it is a very good question. He asks her in Enochian and she laughs at him, her voice a vicious tremor. She tells him that she creates life’s essence and obviously therefore she has none; even the almighty God himself has Grace, though, and every living thing has an eternal spirit of some kind. She is, she states with unwavering assurance, the _only_ exception.

 

“Apart from me,” Castiel points out. He is confused and so very _tired_.

 

There is a pause and then an abrupt shift in the atmosphere and what had felt like a swirling cloud of rage is overwhelmed by a sensation of utter and absolute awe. It feels something like a dawning realization, though of what he cannot tell; when the goddess next speaks, she is quiet and respectful, brimming with joyousness and positivity.

 

“ _It is you_ ,” she says, hushed. “You are the one I have been waiting for, the Other. You created that body, and the spirit infused in it. _Castiel_ ,” she murmurs; there is power within it, silk and strength. “You are a Creator.”

 

For a fleeting moment Dean’s blood-streaked fingers, laced with Castiel’s own, tremble against his skin.

 

\---

**_Chapter 3_ **

 

The silence is resonant, reverberating around the room and echoing within Castiel’s ears in a way that the absence of sound should not. He releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and inhales, letting oxygen flood his lungs as he tries to focus. “What do you mean?” he asks her quietly, because while he may have heard what she said he cannot possibly comprehend it.

 

“And lo, a new being will be brought into existence and they shall be, in turn, Creator of life as others before them,” the goddess says.

 

As far as Castiel can see, she isn’t being particularly helpful.

 

“I am… one of you?” he ventures. He isn’t even entirely sure what he hopes her answer will be.

 

“Yes, Castiel,” she replies. “Only once in several millennia does such a thing occur; we had heard rumors of another ‘Creator’, as you may call us, but we did not know for certain until this moment that you existed. You, specifically, are made in _my_ image, able to craft human and angel both.”

 

Castiel glances around the table, uncertain of how the others are reacting to everything the goddess is saying. Shekinah’s mouth is a tight line of concentration and Sam looks stunned, though his eyes soften slightly when Castiel briefly meets them. Dean is impassive, a faraway look in his eyes as though he is lost somewhere inside himself.

 

“Castiel,” she says, startling him. “I cannot decipher your thoughts when you ask so many questions at once.”

 

“Apologies,” he tells her, concentrating on speaking clearly within his mind, blanking out the flow of cluttered thoughts and queries and attempting to think linearly. “But I think there must be some mistake. I am merely an angel; or at least I _was_ , until I returned in this body. I am just a human now.”

 

“Some of us were born at the dawn of time, while others began their lives in a different form,” the goddess responds. “You were formed as an angel, and should have travelled your destined course to become a Creator. Unlike most, though, you did not live out your fate as intended and chose your own path.”

 

She doesn’t sound angry or disapproving of the things he has done, simply stating it as fact. Unlike the angels, she doesn’t appear to be judgmental of his actions; the Creators, it seems, are on the side of no one but themselves, the squabbles of angels beneath them.

 

“Castiel, _you_ created that vessel,” she goes on. “Your death as an angel triggered your reformation into Creator; I understand you inhabited a human vessel for some time, perhaps resulting in you creating a mortal rather than angelic new form. It is not of consequence, however, as you will be able to take an ethereal form when you come with me.”

 

Castiel feels an odd pang of sadness at the words ‘ethereal form’, for there are times when he misses it so much. When he was able to switch between human and angel effortlessly he did not realize how lucky he was. Millennia as an angel, and all that is left is the ghost-like wisps of memory.

 

“When I come with you?”

 

“Obviously; your life here has run its course and you have been granted the privilege of eternity as a Creator, one of the chosen.”

 

Castiel frowns. “I… don’t want to go with you,” he tells her. “I wish to stay here.” Even as he says it, he hears himself falter. He imagines, as he has done so many times before, a life without ever again experiencing the glory of Heaven, and he imagines having passed up this chance to be raised higher in status than he ever was before.

 

He imagines a life without Dean.

 

“I want to remain here with my family,” he says, surprised and strengthened by the realization. To find sadness or negativity in a choice made is not the same as regretting it, and he would fall a thousand times over to be right here on Earth every time. He cannot have everything, and he has what he wants most. “This is my home now, and I’m happy.”

 

“I do not understand what you are saying,” the goddess says, her voice disjointed with confusion. “This is not a choice; you are to come with me. Why would you not want to experience the glory of creation?”

 

Dean’s hand grips angrily at Castiel’s. “Now listen here, lady. I dunno what you’re trying to pull, but-”

 

“Is that human addressing _me_?” the goddess interrupts.

 

“Yes,” Castiel tells her calmly, “and he won’t do so again.” Thankfully, Dean takes heed of Castiel’s warning and falls quiet, though Castiel can sense his prickling annoyance. “It may be hard to understand, but… I’m more suited to life as a human than I ever was an angel. There are things I am unwilling to sacrifice, even for the glory you are offering to me.”

 

“It is an odd request, but I consider myself reasonable; upon your death as a human I will take you instead. A human lifespan is short and such a length of time is a mere moment in my existence.”

 

“The afterlife is as important as my life here. I will split my time between my Heaven and working for you, please consider this,” Castiel begs of her.

 

“You are very… _difficult_ , Castiel,” she grumbles, and there is a span of silence while she considers her options. “Three of your human years,” she says at length, and Castiel frowns in confusion. “I do not think you appreciate the honor and grandeur that has been bestowed upon you, and I have no option but to take you with me now so that you can come to realize how ignorant you are being. The period is over a thousand sunsets with which I can show you the beauty of Creation. You will come with me for three years, at the end of which you would be able to return if you chose to do so, which I can assure you that you will not. You will divide your time equally in the afterlife between Creation and your personal Heaven should that be your choice, though while working for me I will not allow you to speak with any human because Creation is your duty and you are bound to it.”

 

“He’s not taking your bullshit deal,” Dean snarls.

 

“I am not a demon and this is not a deal, you worthless speck,” the goddess bristles. “I am showing him _mercy_.”

 

“You are gracious,” Castiel tells her. There was a time, after all, when he too was baffled by the concept of human friendship and love; she cannot comprehend what this means to him. “I agree to all terms and will argue no further, on the condition that I do not have to go with you yet. Please – a week, perhaps?”

 

The mood shifts to one of petulance, if such a thing is possible. “I tire of these arbitrary rules and timeframes you are inflicting on me Castiel, but I wish for us to work together harmoniously. I will take you on the seventh sunrise from today. I will not negotiate further. Be ready.”

 

“Thank you,” Castiel replies, and she bids him an abrupt farewell before retreating. It is an odd sensation, as though a cloak has been lifted or a spell broken.

 

Dean drops Castiel’s hand and turns to him, incredulous. “You don’t think maybe we should talk about important shit before _making deals with some goddess-bitch_? Are you kidding me?”

 

“This was my decision to make, Dean, and I won’t apologize for it. I’m sorry,” Castiel tells him.

 

“This is a hell of a lot to process, Cas,” Sam says, fingers rubbing tired circles on his temples.

 

Shekinah is quiet, slumped over in her seat with her face in her hands. “Are you alright?” Castiel asks her, worried, but when she lifts her head she looks only tired rather than hurt.

 

“Yeah, hon, I’m just exhausted,” she says with a small smile. “I need to leave, I’m sorry, but I really think I should go home and recuperate a little. All this angel-talk really takes it out of you.”

 

“I’m sorry I involved you in this,” Castiel says, taking both of her hands in his own. “I hope you will be okay.”

 

She moves to stand, and when she smiles it’s open and honest. “I’m glad I could be of help. Whether you speak to me before you leave or after, I’m here for you. Angel of unconditional love and all that, right?” She bends and kisses him on the forehead before giving a little wave and blinking out of existence with a flap of wings, and Castiel feels almost as tired as Shekinah had looked.

 

The atmosphere for the rest of the day is tense at best, and both Dean and Sam spend much of the day away from the motel killing time and thinking things over. Sam is friendly to him, like he almost always is, but he’s a little distant and Dean barely speaks to him at all during the rare moments Castiel sees him.

 

When he goes to sleep that night there’s nobody beside him and he doesn’t think he’s ever felt quite so alone.

 

 

 

~*~

 

Dean spends the entirety of the next day brooding and generally acting like he’s pissed off with the entire world, which Castiel would maybe be able to resolve at least to some extent if he wasn’t essentially doing the exact same thing. He spends most of the day doing very little at all, and by the time darkness has come they’ve achieved nothing and wasted an entire day. Castiel sits at the little table in Sam’s motel room and stares out of the window, though since it’s dark outside and they’re surrounded mostly by pasture and grassland, it’s not as though he can see much anyway.

 

He’s contemplating whether or not to go out for a walk to get some fresh air when Sam sits down and places a chipped blue mug on the placemat before him, holding an identical one that he himself is drinking from.

 

"Don't you dare tell Dean I made hot cocoa, he'll be a total jerk about it," Sam tells him with a soft smile, eyes creasing in the corners. "The marshmallows will only make it worse; he'll be a dick for days."

 

For a moment Castiel suddenly gets a flash of what Sam must have been like as a child, gentle and carefree, and it almost makes him sad not to have known Sam at a younger age; as much as he has grown to adore this man as one of his closest friends and allies, his _family_ , he gets the impression that the Sam he knows is quite different to the Sam that Dean sometimes talks about when he alludes to their childhood and it makes him wish he knew Sam then as he knows him now.

 

"I will keep this our secret," Castiel says quietly, cradling the warm mug between his palms and taking an appreciative sip. It is sweet and delicious.

 

Sam mirrors him and places his mug on the table, looking at Castiel. "You know it's obvious why Dean is acting the way he is," he says quietly.

 

"Is it?" Castiel replies with a tense jaw, setting his mug down slightly too hard and watching the hot liquid slosh treacherously close to the sides. A little splashes over and burns his fingers, and for some reason he feels terribly, hopelessly human at this moment. He doesn't mean to sound irritated with Sam, but he is angry generally right now. Feeling guilty, he rubs at a spattering of sugar on the side of the mug, avoiding Sam's sympathetic gaze.

 

"Yeah. Firstly, Dean's not pissed at you; he's pissed at the situation. This is just how he deals with all the crap that gets heaped on him and you should know that by now, so stop sulking and try actually forcing him to talk things through with you for once."

 

Castiel says nothing, but lifts his eyes to look at Sam. As much as he resents being spoken down to, Sam is right and he needs to face his problems head on rather than coping the Dean Winchester way with fury and resentment buried under layers of stubborn refusal to communicate.

 

"Secondly," Sam continues, "I know exactly why he's making such a big deal over three years." He pauses and rubs a weary hand over his face. "Cas, he thinks if you go that you're not going to come back at all."

 

Castiel is shocked. "Why would he think that? Of course I'll return," he asks him, frowning.

 

“I know you will,” Sam says. “But the goddess will probably do everything she can to try to get you to stay, and to be honest it isn’t all that surprising that Dean worries so much that someday you’re gonna walk out that door and not come back. We’ve lost so many people already – hell, we lost _you_ more times than I can count.”

 

Castiel nods in understanding. It is true that Dean has experienced the loss of so many friends, family members, lovers – Sam too. They can’t be blamed for their wariness and lack of trust; after all, it has been broken so many times before.

 

For some time they sit in amicable silence, sipping at their drinks until they are finished. Castiel knows what he has to do now.

 

“Thank you, Sam,” he says gently, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder as he passes him by on the way to the door.

 

“No problem,” Sam replies. He waits until Castiel is almost out of the room and calls after him, “ _Don’t tell him about the marshmallows_.”

 

In spite of himself, Castiel smiles.

 

~*~

 

He finds Dean in the first place he looks for him: he’s laid out on the hood of the Impala, drinking beer under the stars where he’s parked in an empty field behind the motel. The night air is cool, and Castiel shivers slightly in his hoodie.

 

Dean must hear him approaching, his bare feet rustling the dry, sun-scorched grass, but he makes no move to look at him. Castiel climbs up to lie beside him and looks up at the night sky: _Sagittarius, Sirius, Aquila_ …he has travelled to each of them in turn, brushed up against the stars and felt their radiant energy around him and within him as he flew through constellations and felt comets glance off his wings. Now they are so far from his grasp, and still so beautiful in an entirely different way.

 

He waits for several moments, the silence punctuated only by their breathing. “I understand, Dean,” Castiel says quietly.

 

“Do you?” Dean says, undertones of bitterness left open and unhidden.

 

Castiel sits up and Dean, to his relief, sits up also, watching him. He finds being ignored far worse than any anger Dean could throw at him. “I understand if you don’t think I’m going to come back,” Castiel goes on. “But I can’t do anything more than give you my promise.”

 

Dean makes a non-committal sound and looks away from Castiel, staring out across the darkened landscape to the dense scattering of twinkling lights in the distance. Homes and people and families, thousands upon thousands of them even within the narrow span of their vision all coexisting.

 

“You’re not the only one scared of this, Dean,” Castiel adds quietly. “I could return to find you or Sam injured, or dead, or simply long since moved on without me.” So many unvoiced fears and these are but a few of them.

 

Dean looks genuinely taken aback as though he hadn’t thought about it from Castiel’s point of view until now. “ _Jesus_ , Cas, like I’d just suck it up and decide I didn’t need you back after a few months of not having you around. Don’t be fucking stupid.”

 

“I know you wouldn’t. But that doesn’t stop me thinking about it in the same way that you for some reason think I’m not going to come back to you. I can do nothing more than have faith in you; perhaps you should do the same for me.”

 

Dean leans back on one hand, looking up at the night sky, and lets out a slow breath. “Okay,” he finally says in response. “Sorry. Didn’t really think about it like that, but you’re right.”

 

“I _will_ come back, Dean,” he says again, because he can’t stress it enough. “Besides, you’re angry at the situation, not at me,” he adds, just because. It startles a surprised laugh out of Dean, who turns to look at him again.

 

“Is that right?” he says, corners of his mouth tipping up despite himself. “Figure that out all on your own, did you?”

 

“Sam and I spoke earlier,” Castiel tells him; credit where credit’s due, after all.

 

Dean shakes his head. “Wow, never would have guessed,” he says, rolling his eyes and leaning over the side of the car to put his empty beer bottle on the ground.

 

“Are you still pissed off?” Castiel asks him. Dean sighs but says nothing, and Castiel takes it for a ‘no’.

 

Castiel leans over to press their lips together, but Dean pulls away after a couple of seconds. He feels his stomach swoop unpleasantly before he realizes that Dean is only teasing him.

 

“Talking about feelings and making out under the stars, Cas? Really? I don’t think this could actually be any more pathetic,” Dean states, eyebrows raised.

 

“You once told me it doesn’t count as a chick-flick moment if it involves both beer and a badass car,” Castiel reminds him.

 

“Right,” Dean grins, bumping their shoulders together gently. “But I’m all out of beer, so I guess we’re shit out of luck, huh?”

 

He’s looking intently at Castiel now, holding his gaze, and Castiel couldn’t turn away for anything life could offer; he loves this flawed, beautiful human entirely, wholly, and with every fiber of his being. It hits him so hard sometimes, when Dean smiles, or looks at him a certain way, and it is utterly breathtaking.

 

“Oh,” Castiel says eventually. “That’s unfortunate.” He presses Dean down with one hand so he’s laid out on his back again, fingers straying to the zipper on the other man’s jeans as he hovers over him. “In the absence of beer, are we allowed to substitute something else in its place?”

 

Dean folds his arms behind his head, eyes bright in the near darkness.

 

“Damn straight, sweetheart,” he jokes, and then he gasps and Castiel would laugh but his mouth is occupied elsewhere.

 

~*~

 

The days pass as quickly as Castiel had thought they would, and by the time his final night arrives he has managed to reach a state of reluctant acceptance. He spends the day with Dean and Sam, doing little more than enjoying one another’s company over pizza, beer and bad daytime television. They go out for a completely pointless drive in the Impala, and Dean even lets Castiel drive for a brief stretch which is a rarity in itself on account of the fact that he’s fairly terrible at it. In an impressive display of self-control, Dean even manages to keep his swearing to a minimum.

 

When they return to the motel in the evening, Sam bids them both goodnight and retires to his room. Dean continues down the corridor that goes to the room that he and Castiel share, pausing to look at Castiel on his way in. Castiel’s heart thumps heavily in his chest, and he follows Dean into the room where he is simply standing by the bed, head cocked slightly, looking at him like he’s trying to burn the image of him to his memory in case it should ever start to fade.

 

There’s a tightness in Castiel’s chest which won’t go away and it feels something like breathing in water – a heavy, terrifying weight in his lungs and his head and his heart, and he thinks of a lake and wishes he didn't know the feeling well enough to make the comparison.

 

This is a goodbye and they both know it. The weight of it pulls them closer together and yet feels like a chasm between them, and Castiel wants to build bridges to fix this but instead feels like every word he wants to say will burn another down.

 

He sits down on the edge of the bed and Dean moves wordlessly to stand before him, looking down at him as he first removes his own t-shirt with a careful slowness, and then Castiel’s.

 

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel murmurs, unable to look away from the hurt etched across the other man’s face and the resolute line of his jaw.

 

“Don’t, Cas,” Dean says softly. “Just… don’t, _please_. I don’t fucking know how to deal with crap like this so just… shut up, okay?”

 

Castiel nods in agreement and waits, gaze unwavering.

 

“Fucking kills me when you look up at me like that,” Dean breathes, cupping one hand under Castiel’s jaw and gently tilting his head back. His thumb brushes across Castiel’s bottom lip and then pauses, the weight of it a gentle burr of friction that drags and pulls, testing the softness there and smudging wet onto dry where the two meet.

 

Castiel enfolds Dean’s wrist with gentle fingers and drags his mouth down languidly to kiss the heel of his hand, his knuckles, anywhere he can press his lips open-mouthed and hot as Dean’s pupils dilate with want. Rarely have they spent so long just touching, taking sex slowly; time, Castiel has come to realize, is of such little importance when you think you have enough of it. There is always another day or another moment until, suddenly, there is not.

 

Castiel curls his fingers into Dean’s belt loops, bringing him closer, and slides one side of Dean’s jeans down a couple of inches to expose the subtle jut of his hipbone. Dean exhales unsteadily and cards the fingers of one hand through Castiel’s hair as he continues to map Dean’s body with his mouth, committing the cartography of it to memory as though he doesn’t know it already inside and out beyond anything else on Earth. He lets his hands smooth lingeringly over Dean’s jeans, fingertips brushing over the age-softened denim to allow his thumb to trace a slow, sweeping curve against the obvious swell of his cock; Dean swears softly and leans into the pressure of Castiel’s hand, eyes heavy-lidded and pleasure-blown.

 

“Y’sure know how to get a guy all fired up,” Dean says quietly, voice gone hoarse and smoke-rough with arousal, and he’s smiling with affection but there’s a sadness there too.

 

Castiel moves his hand to the back of Dean’s thigh and Dean climbs onto the bed on his knees, straddling Castiel’s lap and unbuttoning their jeans. “I was taught well,” Castiel says and Dean lets out a little huff of laughter.

 

“You were taught by the best, Cas,” he murmurs, smirking a little with good humor, and Castiel quirks his lips in a half-smile and pulls him down into a kiss. They rearrange themselves in an awkward tangle of limbs until they are fully on the bed and Dean can remove the last of their clothing before fitting himself between Castiel’s thighs, bare skin meeting bare skin and making them both gasp.

 

The room is too hot, too humid, and the bed creaks with every thrust against its starched sheets and uneven mattress and it’s _perfect_ as it always is, so when Dean shuts his eyes so that Castiel won’t see the anguish that’s bleeding into them, Castiel says nothing, tightens his fingers where they’re linked with Dean’s, and closes his too.

 

\---

**_Chapter 4_ **

 

Castiel wakes early to a feeling of dread; where sometimes it will take a few moments to remember upon waking why that day will be good or bad, this time the knowledge of what he must do is bone deep, a steady hum of trepidation that even sleep could not shake. He turns onto his other side to face Dean, and the other man shifts onto his back as though he had been looking at the ceiling all along; as though he hadn’t been watching Castiel sleep.

 

“Morning,” Castiel says, because there is nothing good about it. Dean looks to him for a moment and moves to lie on his side again, scant inches separating them. He says nothing but slides one hand into Castiel’s hair and kisses him slowly.

 

“You taste like toothpaste,” Castiel says blearily.

 

“Yeah? You ain’t so minty fresh,” Dean laughs quietly, but it’s somewhat hollow and his smile fades quickly. “Couldn’t sleep,” he says with a sigh. “Got up for a bit. Thought I should probably be here when you woke up.”

 

“I’m tired,” Castiel tells him, closing his eyes and burying his face in the pillow. “Can we stay like this?”

 

“No can do, buddy. Up and at ‘em before sunrise, remember?” His voice cracks just a little and Castiel’s heart breaks right along with it.

 

Reluctantly, Castiel sits up, sheets pooling at his waist as Dean’s eyes track the movement.

 

“Wish we had another day though,” Dean mutters. “Just… a bit more time is all.”

 

Castiel forces him to meet his gaze. “When I get back,” he murmurs, fingers at Dean’s jaw and feeling the sandpaper-scratch of stubble there, “I’ll see to it that we have forever.”

 

~*~

 

While Castiel showers and gets ready, Dean paces and frets and pretends he isn’t doing so. Castiel deliberates over the appropriate clothing to wear despite the fact that it’s completely irrelevant, but somehow it feels right to dress at least somewhat smartly, and he decides upon black pants with a white, albeit crumpled, shirt.

 

He looks up in surprise when Dean hands him his old trenchcoat, neatly folded. It’s the first time he’s seen it in some time; he knew Dean had it, but they have never spoken about it in the years it has been folded in the Impala or one of Dean’s bags. It was just _there_.

 

“Just… seems right, I guess,” Dean says with a shrug. “I know you’re not going to be wearing it for long, and I mean that in the ‘freaky celestial wavelength’ kind of way not the ‘gonna rip that right off of you’ kind of way, but you were wearing it through most of the major stuff we’ve been through so I just thought…”

 

He trails off, looking uncertain, but Castiel holds his gaze as he unfolds it with careful hands. “No, you’re right,” he says, feeling the familiar texture of the material against his fingers, the bittersweetness of nostalgia threaded through every crease and fray. “I would like to wear it.” He shrugs it on over his shirt and slacks, and it’s startling how the glimpse of his reflection takes him back to years earlier. He looks at once like the angel he once was, the man he would become, and the combination he is now. He has been so many things, and Dean has treated him simply as Castiel throughout, whether human, angel or demi-god.

 

“Still the only dude in like, _ever_ , who managed to make the nerdy tax-accountant get-up look hot,” Dean says, smoothing the coat over Castiel’s shoulders as the corners of his mouth tip up in a smile. “You’re missing something, though.” He walks away for a minute to rummage through a bag and comes back with a wrinkled black tie. “Not quite right, but it’ll do,” he says, looping it around Castiel’s neck under the coat and tucking it beneath his collar before tying it into a neat knot. “It’s my only one, but I’m sure I can find another if I’ve gotta play FBI anytime soon.”

 

“Thank you,” Castiel says and Dean doesn’t reply, just looks him up and down once and then loosens the tie slightly so that the knot is twisted and the strips of material hang untidily.

 

“Better,” Dean says as he steps back, and when he smiles there is something wistful in it. They stand for a moment, neither of them wanting to take another step towards the inevitable, but eventually Dean exhales shakily and says, “I’ll go get Sam.”

 

Castiel nods and waits for Dean to return, and he does so a couple of minutes later with Sam in tow. Sam’s eyes widen when he sees Castiel.

 

“What is it?” Castiel asks him, but Sam shakes his head.

 

“Just been a long time since I’ve seen you dressed like that,” he says, smile soft and sad. “Like old times.”

 

“I’m going to miss you very much, Sam,” Castiel tells him, and hugs him as Dean hovers in the background looking uncomfortable at having to witness displays of affection. Castiel has so much he could say to Sam, but knows that he doesn’t have to voice any of it because Sam _knows_. He knows that Castiel needs him to take care of himself in his absence, and to keep a watchful eye over Dean. Sam’s hands are warm and broad against his back, a small comfort.

 

“I know, man. You too,” Sam murmurs into his hair.  “Wherever we are in three years, we’ll be ready and waiting for you to come find us again.”

 

“Goodbye, Sam,” Castiel says quietly, and reluctantly parts from him.

 

“Bye, Cas.”

 

He turns to Dean, whose expression is guarded and careful, but there’s misery spilling out around the edges and Castiel feels nauseated, _devastated_ , at having to leave like this. He rests their foreheads together and Dean’s hands frame his face as they press their lips together. It’s barely even a kiss, closed-mouthed and still; just a transfer of touch that lingers until he feels the goddess’s presence, a whirling tug of insistent energy.

 

“She wants me to go with her,” Castiel murmurs against the corner of Dean’s mouth, pressing one final kiss there before he pulls away. “Remember that I will be able to hear you if you choose to let me do so, even if I can’t respond; speak to me as often as you are able. Both of you,” he says.

 

The energy is surrounding him now, buzzing under his skin, and he at last gives in to it, closing his eyes and letting it pull him up, until the world is abstract and out of reach.

 

~*~

 

The first thing Castiel will come to learn is this: there is an abundance of loneliness in glory.

 

It is not the only thing he learns, but it is perhaps the most important.

 

That particular lesson is ongoing.

 

~*~

 

He sees _everything_. More so, even, than when he was an angel and could traverse the globe in a fraction of a second. Of course there is an exception to his _everything_ in the form of the two people he wants to see most; they are hidden from him, and he makes no attempt to seek them out. He gave the goddess his word and tries to learn what it is that is expected from him without distraction, giving himself over wholly.

 

She is a surprisingly patient tutor, helping him harness the power he didn’t even realize he possessed and guiding his every action until he is able to create humans, body and soul, with ease.

 

The creation of angels is few and far between, however, and it is some time before he is given the opportunity; having thought himself a poor example of one himself, the feeling upon creating an angel is a strange one. He also feels an odd sense of fear for them, birthed like a star from energy and nothingness and sent hurtling to a Heaven in disarray with no purpose or reason to fight for.

 

He has seen angels fall and angels die, some of them like his brother Janiel turned ugly and cruel by the end. While from what he can see the actions of angels continue to rarely impact upon humans, he dreads the possibility that they could skirmish once again with bloody, devastating consequences.

 

Any and all contact with humans is forbidden, and he would not try to break that promise. Nevertheless, Castiel has something of a history of being inclined to bend the rules a little where needed.

 

~*~

 

Shekinah starts when Castiel says her name; he feels slightly guilty at waking her up, but in all fairness it was difficult to tell whether or not she was asleep through the oversized sunglasses she’s currently sporting.  She looks quite different to the last time they had met, having swapped the smart business wear for a terrifyingly fluorescent green bikini. Her hair is tightly braided and tipped with decorative beads, and although Castiel cannot feel temperature in his current form he can tell from the palm trees and the heat haze that this beach is extremely hot.

 

“Cassie, you startled me,” she laughs out loud before realizing she can just as easily converse with him inside her head. “I’m on vacation, in case you couldn’t tell.”

 

“I had guessed from the alarming swimwear and the fact that you were inexplicably in Brazil,” Castiel replies. While he understands the _concept_ of a vacation, it’s not something he’s ever really experienced. He supposes that to go away on some sort of retreat implies that you will eventually return to wherever you came from, and that isn’t something that really fits with their itinerant lifestyle.

 

“It’s seriously freaking hot here, right?” she asks him, sipping a drink from a tall glass that clinks with ice before pressing the condensation-covered outside of it to her forehead in an attempt to cool off her human form.

 

“I wouldn’t know.”

 

“Right,” she grins, pushing her sunglasses back up her nose with one finger when they slip down. “It’s weird talking to you and not being able to see you. Also weird hearing your angel-Cas voice again rather than your person-Cas voice; you make Enochian sound really badass, you know. But anyway… how is life as an all-powerful god of creation?”

 

He pauses. “Difficult. Enjoyable. Lonely. Unfathomable.”

 

“That’s quite the combination of answers,” she replies. “I’m guessing you’re here to pick my brain about something rather than for a social visit?”

 

“Unfortunately, yes,” Castiel says. “Sister, I am worried. From what I can see, Heaven is still in a state of confusion and it is only a matter of time before matters escalate.”

 

“I keep an eye on things, when I can. I haven’t seen much evidence so far of things going too badly,” she says calmly. “Yes, what Janiel did was regrettable and we’re inevitably gonna have a few of our guys going rogue, but we can only do so much.”

 

“That may be so, but –”

 

Shekinah cuts in and interrupts him before he can continue, and when she speaks her voice is gentle and clear. “Castiel. Listen to me. What, exactly, do you think you can do to resolve this?”

 

“There is nothing I can do,” Castiel tells her, exasperated. “Nothing I can do will –”

 

“Then you do nothing more than you are doing now,” she says. Castiel falls silent. “Acceptance, Castiel. You can’t do anything about it; maybe there will be battles to be fought in the future, maybe there won’t. As important as it is to accept your responsibilities, you also have to accept when you can’t do anything more. Let it go.”

 

It is so simple and yet it’s like some pivotal thing has shifted upon its axis. He cannot control what happens in Heaven and he can only resolve problems once they have come into existence rather than trying to fight against possibilities and unfounded fears. It is not his burden to bear.

 

“Feel better?” she asks him. He really does.

 

“Yes,” he says. “Thank you.”

 

“You do realize you can come and talk me at some point when you don’t need my great and powerful wisdom, right?” she tells him with a smile. “We can hang out like friends do; you are allowed to have friends, you know. It’s one of the cool parts of being human.”

 

“Yes,” Castiel says in agreement. “Once I have returned to Dean and Sam you can come and… ‘hang out’ with us.”

 

“Cool,” she says. “Tell your boo and your BFF you’re expecting company and I’ll get in touch sometime.”

 

He isn’t entirely sure what all of the words in that sentence were, but when he tells her as much she simply laughs fondly and tells him that he should take care before bidding him farewell.

 

He leaves her on the beach with a mingled sense of relief, happiness and general positivity and feels better than he has done in a long time.

 

~*~

 

His work is demanding, but there are times when he is able to flit from place to place and explore the universe from edge to edge.

 

This, of course, means that not only can he explore anywhere on Earth (with the exception of wherever Sam and Dean are at that given moment) but he can move through Heaven as easily as he once could.

 

He stumbles upon John Winchester’s heaven somewhat by accident and cannot help his curiosity. It feel a little like intruding, to Dean and Sam even more so than John, but he aches to see the Winchesters in any way he can, even if it is simply a memory playing out while he remains invisible.

 

In this particular memory, John looks calm and rested in a way that Castiel imagines he must rarely have done at that age. He appears to have taken a break from hunting, whether self-imposed or through sheer luck that cases were few and far between for a short while, and from what Castiel knows of him he would guess it to be the latter; for a hunter there are always monsters to be found if you look hard enough, but sometimes their silence allows them to be treated as though they were not there at all.

 

Before him, Sam and Dean sit at a table, and they are so _young_. Castiel has little experience with human children, but he would place Sam at perhaps three or four years old, which would make Dean around eight. Dean is affixing stickers bearing the image of cars into a sticker book while John looks on fondly, half watching his boys and otherwise focusing his attention on a pan he is stirring on the stove.

 

“De-eeean,” Sam whines, evidently unhappy at something his older brother is doing. “You’re s’posed to stick them _inside_ the lines.” There are car-shaped outlines clearly marked out on the page in front of Dean, but he’s just haphazardly sticking them anywhere he likes with a cheerful smile.

 

“Nuh-uh, Sammy,” he tells him with an air of superiority. “Long as you get ‘em in there, that’s all that matters.” His small hands work deftly, his sights set on some clear image in his mind of what he wants to achieve and he isn’t going to let anyone else tell him he’s wrong.

 

It’s so very _them_ , so absolutely what Dean and Sam are all about summed up in child’s play and naive smiles that Castiel doesn’t know whether he wants to laugh or cry and can of course do neither. It shouldn’t ache, he hasn’t anything _to_ ache, and yet it does, the absence of them in his life tangible somehow.

 

He counts down each sunset as it comes and with each passing day the pain both lessens and increases as they become ever more distant and ever closer.

 

~*~

 

From the very beginning, there are times when he is able to hear Sam and Dean talking to him. The first few times they speak to him, alone or together, they sound uncertain of what to say and simply tell him they hope he’s doing okay and reassure him that they’re safe.

 

As the weeks pass, though, they often start up one-sided conversations with him, telling him what they’ve been up to. Sometimes, he’ll just hear a _g’night, Cas_ , or his name on Dean’s breath gasped into the empty silence of a motel room. Their voices become a fairly frequent presence, until, one day, they stop. Nearly a week passes before he hears anything at all, his worry growing by the hour.

 

_Hey, Cas,_ Dean says eventually, voice rough and more than a little shaky. _Sorry we kinda went AWOL on you. Sam’s kinda – fuck, he’s in the hospital and it’s pretty bad, Cas. Doctors say it’s pneumonia or some shit, he’s getting better but he came down with it pretty hard. I’ll… let you know, I guess._

 

Castiel doesn’t know what to feel in response; relief that they are both alive is tinged with concern for Sam and an overwhelming sadness for Dean, trapped alone in that situation. He imagines him spending his days at Sam’s bedside, subsisting on alcohol and minimal sleep, and he wishes he was there even if only to serve as a distraction.

 

In the days that come after, Dean is much more positive and then, a week or so after that, Sam starts talking to him again too. Dean tells Castiel in an exaggerated whisper that Sam is a pansy-ass dork who looks fucking ridiculous in a hospital gown, and Sam cuts in to tell Castiel that no, he’s actually rocking this look, and Dean is just the _worst_. It’s the first time Castiel has heard Dean laugh in a long time.

 

He just wants to go back to wherever they are. He just wants to go _home_.

 

~*~

 

As much as he is able to learn the physical aspects of creation, his understanding of the reasons behind why they do things is shaky and he often struggles to understand it. He has many questions.

 

He wonders, for instance, to what extent his creation of a newborn soul will have on the person that the soul will one day become. What if he should make an error and in turn cause this new life to follow a wrong path at some point down the line, crossing the line between good and evil? Would it be his fault, or the influence of those around this creation? He thinks of fate and wonders how much of this person’s future he is carving out for them.

 

“We are all of us an old, new thing,” the goddess had said once, cryptically. Sometimes Castiel thinks he understands more than he has ever understood before. Sometimes he thinks that maybe he doesn’t understand at all.

 

~*~

 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the goddess doesn’t understand Castiel either.

 

She cannot comprehend the choices he has made, nor why he cannot give himself over fully to the life of a Creator. Nevertheless, to his eternal gratitude, she is accepting.

 

He has spent weeks, months and eventually years counting down the days until he can return to what he considers to be his home and he knows that she has not missed it.

 

“Castiel,” she says when a single day is all that stands between him and everything he wants and needs. “You are welcome to stay, but I will make no attempt to coerce you into something you so clearly do not want. We will meet again, and you will eventually divide your time between Creation and Heaven as agreed. But, come tomorrow, you will be free to return to Earth. I hope you have made the right choice.”

 

There is no doubt in Castiel’s mind that this is what he wants, and for every stretch of time he will have to give up the glory of Creation, the beauty of angel’s song and the familiar feel of swirling air currents beneath the ethereal wavelengths of his unfurled wings, he will gain something far greater.

 

“Thank you,” is all he says, something like relief and excitement brimming inside of him.

 

“Your soul is yours to create, Castiel,” she tells him. “Make it pure, and strong, as I have taught you.”

 

And so, immersed in Creation and awaiting the goddess’s permission to return to his human form, that’s exactly what he does.

 

 

\---

 

 

**_Chapter 5_ **

 

The sun is warm against Castiel’s skin and, oddly, it startles him. It’s been so long since he could last _feel_ and he revels in it, closing his eyes and inhaling. It smells like grass and wildflowers, the air sweet and pure here outside of whichever town this may be that the Winchesters have drawn him to.

 

There is a ramshackle little one-story house in front of him, obviously old and weather-beaten but loved all the same with its freshly painted window frames and neatly mown garden. It stands a little way out from the other nearby residences further up the road, seemingly on the outskirts of a small settlement and tucked away in its own little roadside plot with nothing but trees for neighbors.

                                           

The rougher grass surrounding the property and outside the boundaries of its fence-edged garden has had tire tracks worn into it over time, twin streaks of dirt leading to the side of the house and there, at the end of them, the Impala. He cannot help but smile when he sees it, familiarity sweeping over him because now he knows that this is right. This is where he belongs.

 

He sees movement, briefly, behind one of the windows, and Sam comes hurtling out of the door seconds later with an incredulous shout of “Cas?!”, rushing up to him and enveloping him in a tight hug.

 

“Cas, oh _man_ ,” Sam laughs, clapping him on the back before pulling back to look at him. “It’s so good to see you, dude. Seriously.”

 

“It is good to see you too, Sam,” Castiel says and Sam grins, looking about as happy as Castiel feels.

 

“So much you catch you up on, damn,” Sam says, “but I’d better, y’know, let you go see Dean. He’s been driving me up the wall the last week or so, freaking out all over the place and generally being a dick while he waited for you to come back. But now you are, so… I’m headed out to grab a bite to eat and I’ll catch up with you later, right?”

 

Castiel hugs him again briefly before Sam climbs into the Impala with a wave and backs out onto the road, heading towards the little cluster of buildings in the distance.

 

Castiel watches him go before approaching the little house and stepping through the door Sam left open. It’s fairly sparse on the inside, a basic kitchen through a door to his right and a cozy and welcoming living room to his left filled with mismatched furniture scattered across the polished floorboards. A glance at the clock affixed to the wall tells him it is just after eight o’ clock.

 

He steps inside, taking in the full view, and sees Dean sat in an armchair in one corner, a glass of whisky in one hand as he jiggles a leg restlessly and stares out of the window. He must hear the rustle of Castiel’s trenchcoat as he steps inside as he immediately turns to look at him, and the way his expression changes is indescribable; Castiel sees so many emotions at once flicker across his face, from surprise to relief to absolute laugh-with-the-joy-of-it happiness.

 

“Shit,” Dean breathes, standing up and coming to stand in front of him like he can’t quite believe Castiel is really there. “Cas. _Shit_.”

 

And then his arms are around Castiel, his face buried in Castiel’s neck as he squeezes tightly and holds him there. Castiel breathes him in, his hair tickling his nose, and he smells like _Dean_ , like he always did.

 

Castiel isn’t entirely sure how you are supposed to greet someone after a three year absence, so he settles on an old favorite.

 

“Good morning, Dean.”

 

 

 

Dean pulls back and blinks at him, once, his eyes flicking to the clock on the wall and the corner of his mouth quirking up.

 

“Yeah,” he says, raising his eyebrows at Castiel. “It’s eight in the _evening_ , genius.”

 

Castiel narrows his eyes slightly and says _oh_ , to which Dean responds simply by laughing and shaking his head, his fingers tangled in the sleeves of Castiel’s trenchcoat. Castiel twists his wrists and slides his fingers back to clasp Dean’s, his palms warm and perfect against his own.

 

“This house,” Castiel says simply, head tilted; a question without asking a question at all.

 

“It’s sort of… ours, I guess,” Dean shrugs. “Me and Sam thought we should probably get a place to like, rest up between hunts, and this place was going cheap so… yeah.” He’s obviously aiming for nonchalant, but Castiel doesn’t miss the way he smiles just a little as his eyes scan the room. “Besides,” Dean says quietly, not quite looking at Castiel and fidgeting with the sleeves of his trenchcoat again, “we sorta felt you should have like – a _home_ or something to come back to, right?”

 

“Right,” Castiel agrees, smiling. “I think it’s wonderful.”

 

“Yeah, so… awesome,” Dean says gruffly, eyes on the floor. His fingers are stroking idly over the bones in Castiel’s wrists leaving a tingling heat in their wake, the skin lighting up under his touch. The air is electric with expectation as Castiel moves closer, grasping Dean’s hands with his own and holding them still as he leans in to kiss him, barely moving except for the slight brush of his lips down over Dean’s and sucking lightly on the full swell of his lower lip as he pulls away.

 

“Fuck,” Dean growls, a slight tremor in his hands when he slides one into Castiel’s hair, the other gripping tightly at the curve of his waist. He presses their lips together and Castiel doesn’t wait for a request; opens his mouth and lets the kiss turn filthy-hot and wet as Dean groans his approval.

 

It takes a few moments before it occurs to Castiel hazily that they are stood in the middle of the living room and in full view of the window. “Dean, Sam –” he starts to say, but Dean cuts him off with “– will be gone for the rest of the night.”

 

Castiel shakes his head incredulously with a smile. “He –”

 

“– is the greatest brother ever, gold star and an A+ for Sammy. Now shut up and _c’mon_.”

 

The trenchcoat is pushed from Castiel’s shoulders where he shrugs it off and leaves it in a heap on the floorboards, barely able to keep up with the way Dean’s hands are moving and the way his mouth feels, now trailing kisses across the sensitive skin of his neck in a way that never fails to make him shiver.

 

“You, Dean Winchester,” Castiel tells him in a voice that’s more a soft-gasped rasp than anything else as he tries not to smile, “are a very impatient man.”

 

Dean simply laughs and presses closer; he maneuvers them with his hips and shoves Castiel up against a nearby door in a way that takes the breath from his lungs in a gasp, though whether from the impact or from arousal he can’t tell.

 

“Hey, can you blame me? Been thinking about it non-stop for fuck only knows how long,” Dean smirks, peeling his t-shirt off over his head and dropping it carelessly to the floor. “Course, if you want me to stop…” he exhales against the sensitive spot just below Castiel’s ear as he rolls their hips in a slow, sensuous arc, “you just gotta ask. You want me to slow down, Cas?”

 

Castiel’s _no_ is a little more enthusiastic than he would have liked, but it’s hard to concentrate on forming words when Dean’s breathing hot and damp against the underside of his jaw.

 

“Yeah, thought so,” Dean grins triumphantly before hooking one finger under Castiel’s tie, finding the doorknob with his other hand and dragging him bodily into the bedroom where they kick off their shoes and stagger to the bed. Dean falls back and pulls Castiel down on top of him with a muffled _oomph_ and continues to kiss him stupid for the better part of five minutes.

 

Eventually Dean pushes at him with an insistent hand on his chest, telling him to sit up, and Castiel sways for a moment, dazed, before he does so.

 

“Can’t get your clothes off when you’re on top of me,” Dean explains, flashing him a grin, and Castiel moves to sit on the edge of the bed as Dean guides him there with a hand on his back before kneeling behind him and pulling his tie over his head.

 

“Man, you have no idea how many times I’ve jerked off thinking about this,” Dean says, legs moving to straddle either side of Castiel’s so they’re front-to-back and Dean can wind his arms around Castiel’s waist, unbuttoning his shirt and dragging it off over his shoulders so that Castiel can lean back against him, bare skin touching.

 

“Actually, I heard you thinking about it. Quite a lot. Sometimes you said my name,” Castiel tells him, eyes fluttering closed and fingers clenching in the sheets as Dean’s hands slide downwards to unbutton his pants and draw out his cock.

 

“Yeah?” Dean breathes against his ear as he slides his hand up the shaft and rubs his thumb over the head, Castiel’s hips jumping as he gasps. “Been a while since _you’ve_ had to jerk off, huh? Remember when I taught you how, just like this?”

 

Castiel nods, heart pounding. As if he could forget, and it’s just as astonishing as the first time all those years ago – Dean hard in his jeans and pressed up behind him once again, taking control of Castiel’s body as he strokes his cock in an easy rhythm; mouth at the nape of Castiel’s neck as he tells him how _hard_ he is, how _hot_ he is, how much he wants to fuck him.

 

Now, though, Dean knows precisely how to move his hand and exactly what Castiel enjoys most, and it’s burning, overwhelming heat and it’s _glorious_. Dean trails a hand over Castiel’s shoulder and makes sure he’s being watched as he brings that same hand to his mouth and licks the hollow between thumb and index finger, his eyes in the half-light gone green like new spun glass as he holds Castiel’s gaze.

 

If his hands felt good before, it’s a whole new level when they’re wet and slick and Dean can add a smooth twist over the head with the hollow of his palm on every upstroke. Dean is resting his chin on Castiel’s shoulder, close enough to feel every exhale against his cheek.

 

“ _Fuck_ , Cas, I’m so hard,” Dean grits out, and Castiel only burns hotter; gasps Dean’s name as a broken wisp of sound. He knows how hard Dean is, can feel it as he shifts restlessly behind him despite the fact that they’re both still half dressed and his body reacts in turn. The sheer extent to which Dean wants him is shocking every time, an absurdity he will never quite believe because what has Castiel ever done to deserve this?

 

“You wanna fuck my mouth?” Dean asks him suddenly, thumb rubbing delicate circles under the head of his cock, and the unexpectedness of it has Castiel twitching in Dean’s hand, a sleek pulse of precome dribbling over his fingers.

 

Castiel can do no more than groan Dean’s name again in response as Dean’s grip around his cock tightens exquisitely, his mouth close enough to Castiel’s that he can feel every word he says as a damp shimmer of heat against his skin.

 

“You want me to blow you, Cas?” he murmurs and Castiel’s right on the edge now, can feel himself draw tight. “Missed sucking you off, fuck, know how much it drives you wild.”

 

It’s too much to take and Castiel comes with a quiet whimper as he spills over Dean’s hand in rolling bursts of bliss, the universe narrowed to Dean and his own body and the places where they touch.

 

“Some other time then,” Dean laughs softly as his hand slows and then pulls away, wiping it off on the sheets carelessly.  “Jesus, that was fucking hot. And I really need to come before I bust something, just saying.”

 

Dean pulls himself back into the middle of the bed and pulls of his remaining clothing as Castiel stands and does the same, unable to take his eyes off Dean as he strips off. He climbs onto the bed and then onto Dean where he’s laid out.

 

“Do you want my hand or my mouth?” Castiel asks him, hovering over him and holding his gaze.

 

“I want your ass,” Dean smirks, hips bucking up to rub the length of his cock against the crease of Castiel’s thigh. “But not yet. Fuck, anything you want.”

 

Castiel kisses him once on the lips before moving down his body and taking most of Dean’s cock into his mouth in one smooth slide. Dean’s back arches so hard he nearly throws Castiel right off again, but he manages to hold him down with a hand on his hip as Dean curses and moves frenetically against the sheets.

 

“God, your fucking mouth…” Dean groans, his hands sliding into Castiel’s hair as Castiel takes him deeper and applies enough suction on the slide back up to make Dean’s toes curl.

 

As expected, it doesn’t take long to finish Dean off. A couple of minutes later his cock jerks tellingly against Castiel’s tongue as Dean stutters out his name in warning before he comes, and Castiel swallows it down and keeps sucking lightly until Dean’s fingers tighten in his hair from the oversensitivity.

 

“Damn, get up here,” Dean rasps, and pulls Castiel up to kiss him. Castiel twists to lie beside him and he isn’t even sure how long they spend lying side by side, languidly trading kisses and breathing one another in as the minutes tick by.

 

“Hey,” Dean says eventually, sliding a hand into the space between their bodies to give his own cock a couple of lazy strokes. “You about up for round two?”

 

“Yes,” Castiel says wrapping one of his legs around Dean’s and pulling him closer so that he can feel the half-hard swell of his erection against his hip. Dean’s lips draw into a dirty smile against Castiel’s as he pushes Castiel onto his back and props himself up on two hands over him, leaning down to lick into his mouth once again and suck on his tongue until Castiel can’t hold back a moan.

 

“Can I fuck you?” Dean says quietly, his thumb rubbing one of Castiel’s nipples into a hard peak and pressing his mouth to his collarbone. “I mean, you can fuck me if you want, I’m not gonna complain either way, man.”

 

Castiel doesn’t reply but instead spreads his legs a little and brackets Dean between bent knees in an obvious invitation, lips quirking up at one corner as Dean’s breath hitches slightly and his eyes darken.

 

“Awesome,” Dean breathes and kisses Castiel hard before sliding a hand under a nearby pillow and pulling out a bottle of lube. Castiel blinks at him and raises his eyebrows, to which Dean lets out a little huff of laughter and shrugs.

 

“Gotta be prepared, dude,” he grins, slicking up two fingers and carefully sliding one knuckle-deep into Castiel as he trails his teeth and tongue lightly up the inside of his thigh. Castiel sighs and relaxes into the sheets, letting Dean work him open with practiced ease.

 

When Dean slides a second finger in alongside the first, his mouth strays upwards and actually brushes across the place where his fingers disappear into the tight clench of Castiel’s body. The light sweep of lips has a rush of liquid heat rolling through Castiel’s body and he gasps and arches his back, trying to get Dean to go deeper.

 

“Fuck, love seeing you like this,” Dean murmurs against the top of his thigh, biting gently and making Castiel’s pulse accelerate. His fingers tickle the underside of Castiel’s knee as he shoves his legs further apart and Castiel feels his eyelashes against his leg in a teasing flutter of sensation as he presses his mouth wet and hot against his skin.

 

“Dean, hurry up,” Castiel groans, trying to move his hips to feel the friction-filled slide of Dean’s fingers inside him, but Dean simply laughs and crooks his fingers, dragging them over his prostate as Castiel’s vision blurs around the edges. His cock twitches against his stomach where it lies untouched, blood-hot and full, and then Dean’s somehow managed to get a third finger inside Castiel without him even realizing.

 

Dean gives a him a rough, jerking thrust with his hand that has Castiel’s legs shaking a little with want, and he makes a quiet noise of displeasure as Dean pulls out completely.

 

“Well, you do beg so nicely,” Dean says, spreading lube onto his cock and letting his eyes fall closed as he strokes himself. Castiel wraps his legs around Dean’s waist as Dean positions himself and then slides in carefully, stifling a groan into the curve of Castiel’s shoulder.

 

He pauses about halfway in, arms trembling with the effort of holding back, but Castiel tells him to keep going and he does, a slow slide until he’s buried to the hilt and Castiel is so _full_. He takes a slow breath, adjusting, and there is a feeling of rightness and relief that is overwhelming.

 

“Fuck, _Cas_ ,” Dean murmurs, coming down onto one forearm so that he can lay the weight of his body carefully across Castiel’s and use his free hand to trace Castiel’s jaw. Castiel takes his hand, fingers splayed apart, and kisses each fingertip in turn as Dean shivers and fails to hold still, hips jerking in a little pulse of movement that whips pleasure through Castiel’s veins and kicks his nerves alight in a shower of sparks.

 

“Come _on_ ,” Castiel growls, pulling Dean in by the hips and pressing his fingers into his skin in a plea for more. Dean doesn’t need to be told twice, starting a rhythm that builds into easy, measured strokes.

 

“God, Cas, missed this so fucking much,” Dean whispers into his neck, so quietly that he almost doesn’t hear it. It makes Castiel’s chest ache with something he cannot name.

 

He knows Dean doesn’t need stupid declarations or statements of the obvious so simply murmurs, “me too,” a hand pressed to Dean’s back under which he can feel the flex of muscles as Dean thrusts into him. He could stay here forever, Dean on him and in him and completely surrounding him, somehow both exhilarating and calming at once as they move together fluently.

 

Dean presses in deep and gets a hand under Castiel’s back, somehow managing to roll them over without pulling out but nearly sending them both hurtling off the side of the bed in the process.

 

“Impressive,” Castiel tells him drily as he sits up, sliding their fingers together on each hand and pressing their palms together for leverage.

 

Dean laughs but seems too far gone for any kind of witty comeback, throwing his head back against the pillow with a groan as Castiel rocks his hips and rides him easily. There’s a rosy glow of heat creeping down over Castiel’s collarbones and chest, a pleasurable arousal-fuelled flush of prickling warmth that feels like the most beautiful kind of burning.

 

He skims a hand over Dean’s shoulder towards his chest and lets his thumb hook gently over the hollow of his clavicle, slipping in the perspiration there and feeling skin move over bone. There’s a silver line about a hand-span in length running down towards Dean’s heart, a neat scar with a clean-cut edge that suggests the memory of a knife; Castiel touches it, gentle, and makes a silent promise to learn every mark and change upon Dean’s body from when he saw it last.

 

When Dean encourages him forward with fervent hands, Castiel can’t hold back a groan as he leans down and the hard line of his cock rubs against Dean’s abdominal muscles. Dean pulls him into a kiss and Castiel places one hand across the handprint mark that still adorns Dean’s shoulder even now. It’s barely there, almost invisible to the naked eye like the oldest of scars, but if you know where to look for it there is a faint outline of darker skin against the freckled pink-gold slope of his shoulder.

 

Dean nips at Castiel’s lower lip with his teeth and gets a hand on his hips, stilling Castiel’s movements for a beat so that he can thrust up into him, hard. Castiel groans Dean’s name and lets Dean take over the setting of the pace as each punch of his hips rocks Castiel’s cock between their bodies.

 

There’s an urgency building and Castiel lets himself fall into it, the pleasure mounting until he gives into it and stills; Dean still moving inside him as Castiel trembles and comes over Dean’s stomach, cock slipping through his own slick as he shakes through it.

 

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” Dean grits out, “almost, damn –” and he grips Castiel’s hips tight enough to bruise as Castiel leans down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to his shoulder, boneless and pleasure-drunk after his own orgasm. Dean comes, finally, when Castiel sucks a bruise to the shadowed curvature of his neck, slamming up into Castiel hard enough to hurt but not hard enough for him to care, watching Dean close his eyes and arch as he groans Castiel’s name and empties inside of him in wet pulses.

 

Castiel carefully slides off him and Dean laughs when he pulls a face, the sheets damp with sweat and their bodies a sticky mess.

 

“Shower?” Dean asks him.

 

Castiel makes a half-hearted attempt to move but instead flops onto his stomach, drained of energy and completely blissed-out. “Sleep. Then shower. Then talk.”

 

Dean grins and moves to lie on his side beside him, and Castiel turns to face him and crosses one ankle over his just to feel the heat of his skin against his own.

 

Dean’s expression turns a little more serious as he continues to gaze at Castiel, the fingers of one hand slotting into the linear niches of his ribcage like they belong there and his eyes contemplative and unreadable.

 

“Are you alright?” Castiel asks him.

 

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, words shaped around a smile before he closes his eyes to rest. “M’perfect.”

 

Castiel’s mouth curves upward, soft and sure and he looks at this man for whom he would do anything to stay with for all of eternity and thinks that yes, actually, he is.

 

~*~

 

That night, Castiel dreams of flying and it doesn’t hurt. It’s just a memory; something he has done, something he cannot do now but will one day experience again. When he wakes, the spectral remembrance of the feeling doesn’t linger.

 

It’s just a thought in his head, nothing more and nothing less.

 

As choices go, Dean was never anything but the right one.

 

\---

**_Epilogue_ **

 

One day – a year or so since Castiel returned, by his own reckoning – he and Dean lie together on sun-drenched grass, half-dressed and half-asleep. Warmth blossoms across Castiel’s skin where Dean’s arm comes to rest against his side and Castiel smiles at him; this man, who Castiel once pieced together and would later do the same for himself just so that they could fit back together like two parts made whole.

 

There is something peaceful about this place which they have made a home, and sometimes they use the serenity and silence to simply _be_ ; forgetting the world right down to everything in this space of green.

 

Castiel has felt an indelible power within the core of him, the ability to create and recreate as he wishes, but he has no need for such things now. He has everything he wants right here in the span of his human gaze.

 

When Dean tangles their fingers together it feels like coming home, and Castiel closes his eyes against the shimmer of sunlight at the edge of his vision, his happiness absolute.

 

~*~

 

And so it is that one day – or _not_ -day, perhaps, as time moves so differently here – they will lie together on sun-drenched grass, half-dressed and half-asleep, a mirror of a scene that took place long ago; one of many, and yet one of Castiel’s favorites of all. In Heaven’s memory they can do as they please, rewrite this moment to make it flawless and live it infinitely, whenever and however they like.

 

Castiel doesn’t change a thing.

 

___

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to lizfu- your art is so absolutely beautiful and I feel like my little fic doesn't deserve something so amazing. Thank you for taking the time to do not just two, but three illustrations! I couldn't be happier with them. pickedoffthird- thanks so much for beta'ing my fic. You were invaluable in pointing out my errors (and my overly flowery writing XD) and basically helped turn something half decent into something good - the quality of this fic is down to you. And finally, strangefancy- I honestly don't think this fic would exist without you. So many times, especially in the beginning, I wanted to simply delete this and forget about it. But you believed I could do it and were constantly supportive. Of everyone who reads this, no one's opinion matters more than yours and I sincerely hope it is as good as you believed it could be :) To anyone else who gave this a chance - I'm very grateful. I hope you enjoyed my first (and currently only) attempt at writing a plot-driven multi-chapter fic! ♥


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